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... He stepped out of the tunnel into the fading heat. The parking lot was almost empty now—just Clara’s little gray Renault, engine humming softly, headlights off, and the driver’s window half down. She leaned back, one elbow on the window frame, hair messily tucked behind one ear, her eyes fixed on the stadium doors as if they still mattered.

Demien crossed without hurrying. He opened the passenger door, tossed his bag into the back seat, and sat down. No greeting. No apology. Just a silen ...

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Cheng Mingyi was a little lonely throughout his life.

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war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”

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